


Sister Hurt and Sister Comfort

by modbelle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fighting as a turn-on?, Jaime POV, Lions are kittens that maul, Multi, On LJ first and looking for a vacation home, Sansa is a lady!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modbelle/pseuds/modbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya punishes him, Sansa comforts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sister Hurt and Sister Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, all characters belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin.  
> Repost from lj: [asoiafkinkmeme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/)  
> Rating is more between Teen/Adult- went with adult on the safe side.  
> Spoilers through A Clash of Kings/A Storm of Swords.

Tasting the blood from his lip, feeling the burn in his muscles, and watching the gash in his arm dripping blood and mixing with the dirt, Jaime knows this is his punishment. He loves every minute of it. Arya Stark calls it a dance, their unforgiving clash of swords. A dance she seeks him out whenever boiling in rage, frustrated, or haunted. She strikes at him, ducks, and weaves. But this is no training session; should he fall, she will take advantage and drive the sword into his flesh. It’s about pain and brokenness, and the need for blood. They are predatory animals after all, and he feels the hunger grow. He longs for it, the fight between lions and wolves. That’s not why she seeks him out; it’s not some camaraderie for a pound of flesh. Oh it’s a way to channel the negative emotions, overcome the sleepless nights and fear. But his pleasure in it is not sought after or even wanted. She would stop coming to him. He remembers all to well the week she wouldn’t lift a blade to him no matter how much he provoked her, because one night after a nightmare of Cersei and shattered mirrors, he dared request they fight.

It’s an addiction now this outlet for shattered dreams; his blood pumping, feeling more alive than in years, and his marks on her flesh. He knows her vulnerability. Arya Stark rarely sleeps through the night. At first light, she will run fast from the lurking things that keep her up at night, much like Ned Stark so _kindly_ pointed out his kingslaying may keep him awake. So when it’s been days since she gave him his last release, or he needs the fight, he wakes himself up and waits for her outside in a location he’s sure she’ll pass. She’ll fight him if she sees him then. It works every time. The fight ending, he feels like a man, a lion, _alive_. His cock is hard now. Patience was never his strong suit. His father engrained him with the knowledge of life’s game early on, but he’s never wanted to play, rather make his own rules and damn the consequences. Leap off the rocks and see what happens. But he’s held himself so far from finishing their dance and pushing the evidence of his masculinity, he’s the one with the cock no matter what Cersei says. Today he’s had enough with keeping himself in check. Shoving, he pushes Arya’s injured body against a tree, and her fingers dig into his neck. He kisses her before she can plan her mode of attack. Biting her lips, he tries to gain even a small opening, so he can fit his tongue into her mouth. They are like blood brother and sister with their lips pressing their blood against one another and smearing into their cut lips. He misses having a sister so much. This time as he bites harder, he’s sure her mouth will open up for him. Instead, she knees him in the groin. Hobbling from the fall she took earlier, Arya still manages to get away before he can pull her back. The fire in her eyes gives him hope that it won’t be long till he convinces her to want his body in a new way as well. Their dances will be even more enjoyable then. For now, he must content himself with his own hand, and then his second favorite part of their sessions.

Jaime wishes Sansa wouldn’t sleep so late. He has to wait an additional hour after taking care of his cock, so she can take care of the rest of him. Grimy and bloody, he shows up to Sansa’s departments looking as pitiful as he can appear. Sansa makes her normal shocked and scolding tones before setting about cleaning him with a sponge and binding his wounds. A gentle touch has been few and far between in his life. His mother stroked his hair and carefully placed bandages from his adventures when he was a child. Caresses ended with his mother’s death. Cersei was too hard and took offense the few times he asked for a gentle hand. There were fleeting instances when women would touch him softly, injured from battle, but that all seemed to end with Aerys. 

He forgot how much he liked that, a soft touch, till Brienne, strangely enough for such as strong woman, handled his body with care after his cut off hand. Now he hungers for it every bit as much as a way to release the pain and bitterness. Sansa provides his comfort. Bandaging him with care each and every time, her hands soothe his skin. She’ll stroke his hair afterwards, and kiss hurts. This time he lifts his head up and places a soft peck to her lips, and leaves it at that. She smiles prettily. If he can only get Arya and her sister, he could have everything he needs. Smiling himself, he thinks it’s only a matter of time. Sansa and Arya desire to be together always these days, and that’s exactly what he means to do. He doesn’t want to separate siblings; he knows how cruel that is. He just wants to add himself into their dynamic. Resolving, he decides when someone bothers to ask him, he will declare for the North. Though he’ll keep the reason to himself- in the North, he may once again be warm and whole in a way he hasn’t been since his mother and then the songs as well left him. Besides, the Stark sisters need him too.


End file.
